


Of Magisters and Men

by magisterpavus



Series: How To Train Your Dragon (Age) [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adopted Children, Assassins & Hitmen, Dragons, Elvhen Pantheon, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the harrowing events of Trespasser, Echo Lavellan makes the difficult decision to disband the Inquisition and retire to Tevinter with his lover Dorian and his guardian dragon, Nira. All he wants is a little rest, relaxation, and blissful domesticity - but that can be hard to come by in a country full of magisters and men who want you dead - or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. My friend says I'm crazy for starting this new work and they're probably right. BUT FUCK IT, LET'S DO THIS. I've been writing snippets of this thing for ages, so I figured - might as well start piecing 'em together. Enjoy!

_Live well, while time remains._

It was official, Lavellan thought blearily as he all but dragged himself out of the last eluvian, head spinning and left arm hanging heavy and useless at his side – all the elvhen gods were complete and utter _dicks_.

Of course, he really never should’ve trusted the Dread Wolf in the first place. He was the notorious trickster, after all. But Lavellan had really thought…he’d really _hoped_ that maybe Solas was on their side…stupid, stupid. He was just like Falon’Din after all – scheming and selfish. And to think that Solas didn’t even see him as one of the People just because he wasn’t a mage…if everything didn’t hurt so much, Lavellan would’ve tried to punch him for that, probably. After all they’d been through…after everything that had happened…it was all going to shit all over again.

He finally broke through the glimmering barrier, landing with a groan on the battle-worn ground where he’d left the rest of the party. A huge shadow fell over him and he fervently prayed it wasn’t another Qunari.

“Boss? Oh, shit. Not this again.”

Alright, so, it _was_ another Qunari, but at least this one wasn’t coming after him with a spear. Lavellan struggled to sit up, a thin, pained whine slipping out from gritted teeth as he did so. Solas had done…something to it. Lavellan had a sneaking suspicion he knew what, and when he managed to rip his left glove off his fears were confirmed. 

“Oh,” he said in a very small voice, staring at the skin the Dread Wolf had turned to stone, just like he’d done to the Viddasala and her soldiers. He did not have to look to know that all the skin, flesh, and bone up to his elbow had been similarly destroyed – and the Mark along with it. The Dread Wolf had taken his magic back, in the end. 

“Amatus?” Dorian rushed to his side, nearly dropping his staff in the process. “Oh, thank the Maker you’re alright, because there’s no way we could fit Nira through these eluvians –”He faltered when he saw Lavellan’s dazed expression. “Amatus? Are you…”

Wordlessly, Lavellan rolled up his sleeve. 

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra whispered, standing beside Bull, sheathing her sword cautiously. She stepped forward. “Is that…”

“We need to cut it off,” Lavellan said dully, shrugging his jacket off with difficulty. “Dorian, help me with my armor – I can’t…” His stone arm was immobile, as if it were already disconnected from his body. He knew it wasn’t stone, not exactly – he could still feel it, pulsing with pain, and he knew this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Dorian shook his head, though he unlatched Lavellan’s pauldrons and chest plate until he was only in his thin tunic. “Lavellan, there has to be another way –”

“Well, there isn’t!” he snapped, glowering at Dorian, ears flicked back in pain and frustration. As he said it, he yanked the tunic up and off so forcefully it nearly ripped, and his bare, scarred left side drew a collective gasp from the group. The Mark had burned him, in curling, glowing green lines running dangerously close to his throat, and the dangerous magic was still spreading. “The Mark is gone,” he added hollowly, “it’s all gone.” He looked up at Bull resolutely. “Cut it off.”

Bull bowed his head. “Alright, boss.”

“Wait just a second, you’re not seriously – put that away!” Dorian cried as Bull hefted his greataxe from his back, advancing upon them steadily. 

Before Dorian could move to stop the Qunari, Cassandra pulled him back, holding him firmly as he struggled, hands glowing with panicked sparks, eyes shining with blatant fear. Cassandra’s own dark eyes were averted, brow lowered unhappily. Lavellan looked away from their eyes as Bull hesitated in front of him, the Qunari’s single eye full of concern though his lips were pressed in a thin, firm line. Lavellan stuffed his discarded glove between his teeth, rolling onto his back and extending his arm fully. 

“You sure about this, boss?”

Lavellan nodded once, and squeezed his eyes shut. His arm throbbed, veins aflame, useless fingers splayed on the damp grass, and all he could think about was how he was never going to be able to use his bow again.

The blade fell, and blood filled Lavellan’s mouth as he screamed.

*

Somehow, he managed to stay conscious for most of the journey back to the Winter Palace – Solas’s stone trick had cauterized many of the blood vessels in his arm, so he bled less than usual, according to Bull. Lavellan wasn’t so sure – it still seemed like a lot of blood, too much, soaking the ground around him and making his head spin with dangerous dizziness.

Dorian’s healing had gotten better since Solas had left the Inquisition, thankfully, so it was with more practiced hands that he wove the wound shut, though Lavellan saw them shaking through hazy tunnel vision. Unfortunately, his nerves hadn’t been cauterized nearly as well, and when Cassandra and Bull hefted him up to his feet, he had to bite back another cry of pain, eyes squeezing shut tightly.

No Qunari bothered them on their way back. Lavellan tried to explain in slurred sentences that the Viddasala was dead, Solas had killed her and her soldiers, and Solas was the Dread Wolf. The rest of the party exchanged worried looks. 

Cassandra, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, murmured, “Inquisitor…you may be delusional, you lost a lot of –”

“I’m not,” Lavellan insisted. “I’m not, I’m not…”

“Hush,” Dorian whispered, grip on his waist tight enough to bruise. “Just a little farther, now.”

“I’m not,” Lavellan continued stubbornly, but the last eluvian loomed up in front of them, and when they emerged on the other side it was to pure chaos as Lavellan finally let go, slipping into blessed oblivion. 

*

“You really need to stop doing this, amatus,” Dorian told him, sitting on the bedside and stroking his hair. It had gotten longer over the years, pale locks curling nearly to his shoulders, tangled and messy against the pillows. Lavellan slowly looked at Dorian, guilt blossoming in his chest as he did – the mage’s face was verging on gaunt, eyes tired and surrounded by the dark, bruise-like circles of sleeplessness. “I don’t think my heart can take it,” Dorian added.

Lavellan sat up – or tried to, it was a bit difficult to prop himself up with his left arm when he…he didn’t have one. “Oh,” he said, staring at the bandaged stump with a lump in his throat. “Oh.”

Dorian bit his lip. “Does it hurt?”

Lavellan couldn’t stop staring at it. It felt… “No,” he said. “Not…not exactly. But it…there’s an ache. Like it’s still there.”

“Maybe it could be, again,” Dorian told him, leaning forward and gently tracing the pale scars left in the Mark’s wake. Lavellan watched him curiously. “I’ve been doing some research while you were out – in between weeping disconsolately and stopping Nira from smashing through the walls of the Winter Palace to get to you, of course.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He hesitated. “She…hasn’t hurt anyone, has she?”

They both knew what had happened the last time Lavellan was in mortal danger, and it hadn’t been pretty. Walls – or rather, ancient tomb ceilings – had been smashed, blood had been shed, and fire had been breathed.

But Dorian shook his head. “No, thank the Maker. In her old age, she seems to have calmed down a little…and it’s a nice thought that she may trust me more now, too.”

Lavellan smiled slightly. “Old age? She’s barely three years old. We’re practically grandparents in comparison.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “I’ll have you know I haven’t got a single gray hair,” he muttered. “I’ve checked. Unlike you, you silver fox.” He grinned and twirled a strand of Lavellan’s hair around his finger. “You’d never be able to tell!”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “Right, well – you never know with you Tevinters. Didn’t you say you dyed your hair anyway?”

“Hush, that’s a secret,” Dorian chuckled. “But…my research, it has to do with my homeland, and certain…customs we have there. Not hair dying, mind you. To be quite honest, I think Vivienne suspects I’m trying to bring your arm back with blood magic, judging by her scathing glares in the library yesterday.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. “Please tell me you’re not going to do that.”

Dorian frowned. “Of course not, you know my very clear position on blood magic. It has nothing to do with that sort of thing. But it does have to do with restoring your arm. You see, although Tevinter has its faults, you’re unlikely to see many maimed people with missing limbs walking around. Usually, healers just sort of…recreate them with magic. Like this.” He made a strange motion with his hand, and Lavellan’s left elbow tingled as, miraculously, a soft golden illusion replaced the empty space where his arm had once been, almost identical to the first one.

Lavellan, wide-eyed, tried to move his fingers, but Dorian shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s just what it appears – an illusion. But there is a more permanent spell – one that could give you back what was lost, more or less, minus the Mark.”

“You…you would do that?” Lavellan asked, a lump forming in his throat. 

“Of course, amatus,” Dorian said, the golden illusion fading bit by bit. “I’m still working out the details, but…you should have it within a month or two, I can promise you that.” He squeezed Lavellan’s arm. “You’ll be able to use your bow again.”

Lavellan exhaled in blatant relief, tugging him down for a kiss with his remaining hand a bit clumsily, though it got the job done. He could feel Dorian’s smile against his lips. “I love you,” he murmured when he pulled away. Then he faltered. “Dorian…about what I said, back in the eluvians, about Solas –”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “That he was the Dread Wolf of elvhen legend?”

Lavellan winced. “Yes. He is, Dorian – and I’ve known for years.” Dorian’s lips parted, confused, but Lavellan held up his hand and continued. “I told you that when Nira revived me, it was in a forest near Qarinus. Arlathan. And I told you that the shadow was there, and that it wanted to possess me and cast my spirit into the Void.” Lavellan swallowed. “But I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I didn’t tell anyone the whole truth, except for Solas.”

Hurt flashed across Dorian’s face. “What? What are you saying…?”

“The shadow,” Lavellan whispered. “It wasn’t a spirit; it wasn’t a demon. It was a god. It was Falon’Din, elvhen god of death, and he wanted to use my body as a vessel in order to tear down the Veil with the Mark and set all of the Creators free.” Lavellan took a deep, shuddering breath. “And now Solas wants to do the same thing. He’s going to, if we don’t stop him.”

Dorian stared at him. “A _god_? Tear down the Veil? Lavellan, surely you can’t truly believe that…”

“There’s more. Nira saved me from Falon’Din, but I woke up at Falon’Din’s final altar. A blood sacrifice had been performed there, which was what allowed him to threaten me. And he had a Guardian there too, just like Mythal.” Lavellan looked at Dorian steadily. “Falon’Din’s Guardian is Nira’s father, Dorian. That’s why she could bring me back to life; that’s why she’s so loyal to me.”

Dorian stared at him, shocked, jaw working slightly. “You…you lied to me, then? To everyone? And you knew what Solas was; who he was…but you kept it a secret? Lavellan, why?”

Lavellan frowned. “The world was a mess as it was. And…and you were a mess, I had just _died_ ; I didn’t want to worsen the situation –”

“You could have at least mentioned what Nira was!” Dorian exclaimed. “I…she’s under Falon’Din’s control! She practically offered up your corpse to him –”

“She broke his control!” Lavellan snapped. “She saved me, in the end.” He turned away, shoulders tense and tone upset. “But none of that matters anymore, don’t you see? Solas will free them, all of the Creators and maybe even the Forgotten Ones too. And then he’ll destroy this world and build his old one out of the ashes. I might as well have just died and become Falon’Din’s vessel. I failed. We failed.”

Dorian was quiet. “You haven’t failed,” he finally replied, touching Lavellan’s shoulder carefully. “But…if what you say is true – and I believe it is – we must tell the others. We could still stop him.”

Lavellan shivered. “You haven’t seen their power; the power of the Evanuris. Solas killed the Viddasala, but he also killed all the other Qunari who came after him. Didn’t even lift a finger. His eyes just…flashed, and they were reduced to statues, like my arm. And Falon’Din…”

“You stopped him,” Dorian said. “Or Nira did, but at any rate, he’s not invincible!”

“That was just his shadow,” Lavellan said grimly. “Imagine what his true form could do. No…nevermind, I don’t want to imagine that.” He huddled miserably amidst the sheets. “What did I ever do to deserve this? I just want…for once, I want things to be normal.” He hung his head. “It’s pathetic, but you know what?”

“What?” Dorian murmured, swinging his legs up onto the bed and lying beside him.

“I don’t remember the last time I actually felt happy,” Lavellan said, shaking his head. 

“Oh, amatus,” Dorian whispered, sounding about as upset as Lavellan felt. He wrapped an arm around Lavellan and he just let himself crumple, folding against Dorian’s side helplessly and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

“It’s just…with everything happening, with the Council, and all the stress, and everyone wanting me to be someone I’m not, and the Mark, and trying to figure out what to do with Nira and –”

“Hey, hey, shhh,” Dorian said, running a hand through his hair and cupping his face, tilting it up towards his own. “You don’t have to deal with all of this anymore, Lavellan. You never asked for this job in the first place. Maybe...maybe it’s time to lay down your weapons and go home.”

“W-what?” Lavellan stared at him, wide-eyed. “But…but I’m the Inquisitor – and Solas – and Nira –”

“You don’t have the Mark anymore,” Dorian said bluntly. “You’ve served the Inquisition for six years, which was more than anyone could’ve asked of you. And you deserve so much more than a life of endless turmoil. Others can pick up the pieces where you left off – this needn’t be all on you, Lavellan.”

“You think I should end it,” Lavellan mused. “Disband the Inquisition. I…” He hesitated. “But what would I do? Where would I go? I don’t even know where home is, anymore.”

Dorian smiled slightly. “Well…I have been receiving increasingly desperate invitations to Qarinus as of late. I’ve declined them all, of course, but…if you did make the choice to retire, I might be persuaded to take you along with me.”

Lavellan considered that. When all of this was over, he had wanted to go somewhere warm…and he did want to see Qarinus up close. Meeting Dorian’s parents was a slightly more terrifying thought, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Slowly, he nodded…then bit his lip. “What will we do with Nira? She’d throw the biggest temper tantrum in Thedas if I just up and sailed across the Waking Sea without her.”

Dorian chuckled. “Sail? Who said anything about sailing? I despise boats. Dragon rides, on the other hand…oh, Mother will be absolutely beside herself.”

“You want to take her with us?” Lavellan laughed, disbelieving. “To Tevinter?”

“Of course! It’ll set everyone’s tongues wagging, that’s for certain.” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “And…well, I’d sleep better at night knowing she was nearby. No harm will come to you under her watch, I’m certain.”

“Even in Tevinter?” Lavellan asked.

“Even then.”

He was wrong, of course. The storm was just on the horizon, and this time neither of them would see it coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a very merry Christmas/Hanukkah/whatever you celebrate and that your New Year's will be just as great. Enjoy, and thanks for your kind comments and kudos!
> 
> (p.s. the next chapter and the rest of the story will be set in Tevinter, so lots of Tevene will be used. To make things easier, I've started to compile a little dictionary/reference sheet of words and phrases just to help you guys and myself out. A lot of it is based off of Latin, Greek, and Italian.)

Unfortunately, there were plenty of loose ends to tie up, and the Inquisition went out with a whimper rather than a bang – sure, there had been quite an uproar when Lavellan announced the Inquisition’s disbandment at the Council, but the more technical details had taken weeks to work out. In the end, though, Lavellan made it clear that he wanted nothing more than to be done with it already, and Cassandra reluctantly let him go with the promise that he would keep in touch, _of course, Nevarra and Tevinter are next to each other, after all._

So it was that Lavellan found himself saying his goodbyes, shaking everyone’s hands and embracing a select few of them with the brand-new golden arm Dorian had painstakingly created for him. It was still taking some getting used to and Nira would occasionally growl at it suspiciously, but he was unspeakably grateful for it, and for Dorian.

Sadly, Dorian was whisked away around the same time that Lavellan departed for Kirkwall – he was going to be made an ambassador of Tevinter, or something like that, and though he swore he’d be back soon Lavellan knew such promises were all too easily broken. It gave him some time to settle into his new estate though, and better yet, to settle into the Red Jennies. Sera gleefully accompanied him to Kirkwall (via dragon), and immediately took it upon herself to show him her world.

Lavellan gladly followed her, happy for once to not be the leader, and when he was able to use his bow again he swore it was one of the best days of his life (even if he and Sera ended up covered in scratches and bruises after tumbling off of several rooftops). 

One day, in a stroke of rebellion (and frustration after it kept snagging on his bow), Sera helped Lavellan cut his hair, which had gotten intolerably long. By “mistake,” she cut it much shorter than expected, and to make up for unevenness she shaved it to the darker roots on the sides like Krem’s (though Lavellan’s was “fluffier,” as the Sera liked to say). It made him look much younger – boyish, even, and it brought back teenage memories of a simpler time.

Still, he had learned to be wary of falling into a sense of security, and it was strange and disconcerting to stay cooped up on the estate all the time. Even the Jennies’ excursions were often short and close to home. Besides, Lavellan hated being all alone in the mansion. Sera stayed with him there at first, but quickly decided she liked the city better because she could visit Dagna, who had taken up business with Varric there. It involved bees and poison. Lavellan didn't investigate further.

As for Varric, Kirkwall’s viscount was drowning in work, and Lavellan rarely saw him. When he did, it was usually with company – the Champion and his friends were practically Varric’s entourage, it seemed. Lavellan didn’t mind them, but their presence just made him feel lonelier than ever – they had been through so much together, and he was a newcomer, the ex-Inquisitor, a Dalish elf who was very, very lost.

He had Nira, though, and that was what probably kept him sane most days. That, and Dorian’s letters. There was one at least every week, sometimes more, and a number of them came with drawings in dark charcoals or black ink. Lavellan treasured every single one – from the sketches of the Pavus estate to the lovingly rendered drawings of Lavellan’s own face. _Forgetting what your nose looks like,_ Dorian scrawled on the back of one. Lavellan’s nose was not quite that nice, which was what he wrote in reply, and in response Dorian sent him a sketch that made Lavellan turn bright red and hastily stuff it into his desk drawer before any of the servants could see.

(Clearly, Dorian was not so forgetful about other parts of his anatomy.)

Lavellan wasn’t entirely sure what Tevinter was keeping Dorian busy with – dreadfully dull stuff, Dorian complained, things that would make Josephine yawn. He often hedged that he’d be done with it all soon, and that he was making preparations for Lavellan to stay with him in Qarinus, but there was never any follow-through. Lavellan tried to stay optimistic about it all, sending back letters of his own about how much he missed Dorian, how beautiful the countryside was, how big Nira was getting, how he and Sera had managed to piss off the nobles again. But his heart ached – parchment and ink wasn’t enough, and it never would be.

He was using up so much parchment and ink lately – Josephine kept in touch after she’d returned to Antiva with detailed stories of the latest gossip, Cassandra’s concise letters came on the first of the month without fail, Cullen occasionally sent little mementos from his travels, Leliana’s ravens kept a watchful eye, Vivienne gave him dozens of invitations to dozens of balls, and Bull and the Chargers sent Lavellan a massive dragon sculpture with no explanation. (Lavellan was fairly certain it was them, anyway. The entire thing was filled with alcohol.)

Blackwall was busy with the Wardens and Cole was in the Fade somewhere, so that only left one companion whom Lavellan wished he could speak to again. Solas. At first, he’d been angry – furious, really, with both Solas and himself. But then…he had been friends with the Dread Wolf once. Maybe, if only he could find him, Lavellan could persuade him not to go through with his insane plan. But the months passed, and there was no sign of Fen’Harel, nor of the other gods. Lavellan supposed he should be grateful, but it just made him more and more anxious.

It didn’t help that there was apparently an exodus underway. The first time Lavellan saw it, he was riding Nira over the Free Marches’ forests, enjoying the warm summer breeze, when a thin cry from the ground startled him out of his reverie. He looked down, only to see at least a hundred elves – Dalish, three or four clans of them – traveling across an open meadow together with all of their halla, aravels, and belongings packed up as if for a long, long journey. One of the younger elves was pointing up at him and Nira, crying out excitedly, and the procession halted as Nira circled above them.

Lavellan leaned over her side, waving back at them so nobody would attempt to shoot Nira out of the sky (it had happened before). Slowly, the Keepers lowered their staffs and stared at the dragon and the elf for several long moments before starting up again. Lavellan furrowed his brow – what event could possibly warrant so many clans coming together? Was there some kind of special migration he somehow didn’t know of?

Curiosity getting the best of him, Lavellan guided Nira down, landing several meters from the group’s left flank. Several elves leapt back, terrified, but an aged Keeper and her First stood their ground as he dismounted. The halla snorted uneasily, stamping their feet, but Nira didn’t so much as glance at them. She didn’t eat sacred animals, especially not ones that had saved her and Lavellan from certain death years ago.

“Halt, stranger,” the First snapped, but the Keeper held up her hand, stepping forward and inclining her head.

“Aneth ara, hahren,” she said. Lavellan blinked, taken aback by the formal title. “I have heard tales of you,” she continued. “You are Inquisitor Lavellan, are you not?” He nodded hesitantly and she smiled. “I guessed as much from your vallaslin and arm. And your dragon, of course – the great Nira.” The other elves were murmuring in disbelief, and the First looked shocked.

“Clan Lavellan?” the First muttered. “But…but they were…”

“Destroyed by shemlen, yes,” the Keeper said sharply. “Ir abelas, Lavellan. All the Clans mourn their loss. It is good to know that despite all odds, you live on. The Creators have watched over you.”

Lavellan resisted a shudder, because she had no idea how right she was, in a twisted way. “Ma serannas, hahren. I wish I could have done more to help them.”

“You were surrounded by shemlen in a far-off place, the fault is not yours,” the Keeper assured him. “And such formalities are unneeded – I am Keeper Halanissan, of Clan Revashal. And this is my First, Elgara.”

“Hello, Inquisitor,” Elgara said coolly, staring at Nira. “You…honor us with your presence.”

There was no mistaking the enmity in her tone. Lavellan tried to ignore how hurt that made him feel – that she was speaking to him as if he were some shem. But he pushed back the lump in his throat and instead asked, “Do you mind if I ask what’s happening? I’ve never seen so many clans together at once.” He frowned. “Is everything alright? Were any of you attacked?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Elgara snapped, folding her arms. “Surely you must have heard.”

“Show some respect, da’len!” Halanissan scolded. She shook her head and sighed. “No, hahren – all the Clans are safe. We are making a pilgrimage, you see – to Arlathan.”

Lavellan blanched. “Arlathan?! Why? That’s too far north, it’s dangerous –”

“Our gods called out to us, after centuries of silence,” Elgara replied. “We are simply following their commands. They told us the world is about to change.”

Lavellan tried desperately to calm himself. “They…told you? How? What did the Creators say?”

Halanissan looked excited. “Yesterday, at midnight, all of our major altars burst into flame, as if lit by a holy fire. And every Keeper, in every Clan, was visited by a dream in which Elgar’nan himself told us the Creators would return to Thedas, and return what was rightfully ours. He warned that Arlathan was the only truly safe place for us in the meantime.”

“I see,” Lavellan said. “Did Elgar’nan specify when this would take place?”

“As if you deserve to know,” Elgara muttered under her breath.

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Da’len, please –”

“He abandoned his Clan, left them to die!” Elgara exclaimed. “He abandoned his people to save shemlen lands while we suffered. I bet he doesn’t even believe in the Creators anymore!”

“Elgara, that is enough!” Halanissan hissed. “He saved us all from the tear in the Veil, and he sacrificed everything to do it!” She gave him an apologetic look. “My First is young and knows little about the outside world. Please, pay her no mind. If you wish, you are of course welcome to journey with us to Arlathan. And in answer to your question – the All-Father only said that this change would occur before the next total eclipse.”

“Five years,” Lavellan murmured.

“Yes,” she said. Halanissan mistook his troubled expression for troubled faith and gently added, “The Creators will welcome you back with open arms even if you have strayed from them.”

Lavellan winced. “No, that’s not…” He took a deep breath. “The Creators came to me once, years ago, in dreams, as they did for you. One of them in particular, actually.”

Halanissan’s eyes widened. “Truly? What did they say? Who was it?”

“Falon’Din,” Lavellan said grimly, “and he was not the god I thought him to be. He was…powerful, yes, immeasurably so, but also deceitful and selfish and dangerous. The Creators are dangerous, Keeper, and you would do well to remember it.”

Halanissan’s brow lowered. Elgara glared. “Was that a threat?” she spat.

“It was a warning,” Lavellan said simply, going back to Nira and trying to still his trembling hands against her scaled neck. “I have been to Arlathan before, and it is a place of old, dark magic. Blood magic. There are ghosts there and you would be wise to let them lie.”

“Hahren…I appreciate your concern, but you know how we live, how we are forced to live under the iron fist of the shems.” Halanissan shook her head sadly. “You must understand that ours is a miserable lot in life. This…this is a chance. A chance to change that.” She smiled hopefully. “Perhaps the Creators will visit your dreams again, and tell you what they told me.”

“They already have,” Lavellan said dully, thinking back to Solas’s melancholic but firm words, the realization that the Dread Wolf had the potential to become as mad and power-hungry as Corypheus had been. And Lavellan was tired. Too tired to save the damn world again, that was for sure. 

He swung himself up onto Nira’s back, which grew harder and harder to reach each day. “Dareth shiral,” he said. “I hope, for all of your sakes, that I’m wrong about Arlathan.” But in his heart, he knew he wasn’t.

“Dareth shiral, hahren,” Halanissan echoed, bowing her head. “We will be there if you change your mind.”

As Lavellan nudged at his dragon’s sides and she took off into the vast blue sky, he could feel Elgara’s gaze on him – angry, confused, and full of denial. He had been foolish to even try to tell them of the impending danger – the Dalish were famous for their stubbornness, after all. He just hoped that wouldn’t be their downfall in the end.

*

Nira must have sensed that he was upset, because when they returned to the estate, she snuffled at Lavellan with concern, cocking her head at him and whining. He sighed and patted her horns, which had grown so long that they’d begun to curl at the ends. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, “I’m sure Solas would spare you in his new world order. You’re more elvhen than me, apparently.”

Nira’s tawny eyes sparked and she blew a curl of disapproving smoke into his face. Lavellan coughed and grimaced at her. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “You know it’s true. I’ve spent so many years with shem that even the Dalish see me as some outsider. Probably doesn’t help that I have a shem lover, too.”

Lavellan immediately regretted bringing up Dorian – he missed him so much, and Nira could surely tell as his voice cracked and he slumped against her side. “He’ll be back,” he said shakily, “I know he will. One of these days.” But it was already past Funalis, and summer was drawing to a hasty close, and Lavellan’s patience was running out. Not even his dragon could comfort him.

He turned away, tilting his head up towards the dimming sky, the estate’s vast lawn bathed in twilight. “Go on, you should hunt while there’s still some sun left.” Nira nudged him again, as if to ask, _And just where do you think you’re going?_ “I’ll be sleeping,” Lavellan told her, trudging off towards the shadowy silhouette of the house. “Not as if there’s much else to do, anyway.”

*

His dreams, as it turned out, proved far more interesting than the waking world anyway.

Lavellan found himself in a terribly familiar place – he stood under tall, ancient trees amidst dark, thick undergrowth that tugged at his clothing and rustled raspily as he made his way through it. Arlathan. Instantly on edge, his ears pricked and he searched the shadows for a figure with golden eyes warily. Thankfully, he came up short, but his relief was short-lived.

“Inquisitor. I thought I might find you here.”

Gritting his teeth, Lavellan turned on his heel to face the voice that had spoken from behind him, unsurprised to see Solas standing there in his ancient robes, leaning against one of the massive trees casually. The elf’s favorite activity had always been exploring the Fade, after all.

“I don’t go by that title anymore,” Lavellan retorted. “Which you would know, if you hadn’t spirited away and betrayed us all.”

Solas frowned. “I have done nothing yet,” he countered.

“Liar. The Keepers didn’t actually dream of Elgar’nan, did they? It was you they saw. And now they’re all on their way to this blasted forest. I hope you’re happy, Dread Wolf.”

“On the contrary, I’m not happy,” Solas admitted. “It pains me that I must do this; I hope you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter how you feel about it if you still do it,” Lavellan hissed. “How could you? I kept your secret from the others because I trusted you. Clearly, that was an idiotic move on my part.”

Solas just looked sadder. “I wish there was another way –”

“There is!” Lavellan snapped. “Why would you want to return things to how they were, anyway? You would have millions die just so you could once again enslave the elves under the Evanuris –”

“The elves are already enslaved,” Solas interrupted. “Even under the Evanuris, they were never as oppressed as they are now. If you have another solution, then please, by all means – enlighten me.”

“Dorian wants to change Tevinter,” Lavellan burst out. Solas raised an eyebrow, mouth set in a thin, cold line. “And he could, I know he could. Things could become better without bloodshed –”

“Yes,” Solas replied, a bit mockingly, “Dorian wants to change Tevinter. But he wants to change it politically, not economically. You know his views on slavery – he sees it as a necessary evil. And even if you did manage to change his mind…there _will_ be bloodshed, Inquisitor. Perhaps not an all-out war, but there will be daggers in the dark; throats will be cut and lives will be lost. Elvhen lives more than any others.”

“You can’t honestly think that genocide is a better idea,” Lavellan said, growing desperate, trying to ignore the truth in Solas’s words about Dorian. “You only awoke a couple of years ago, Solas – you haven’t seen enough of this world to care about it.” Solas frowned. “I thought you cared about at least some of the people who lived in it, but I was clearly wrong about that.”

“No, Inquisitor,” Solas sighed, “you aren’t wrong. I care about people – the People. And…I regret what I said to you, at the eluvian. You’re one of us, Inquisitor – and you could be part of our world. All you must do is travel to Arlathan –”

“And do what?!” Lavellan cried. “Leave behind all I’ve ever known? Leave behind the ones I love? Watch from the sidelines as you obliterate all of them?” His mouth twisted. “Or worse, embrace the Creators? No. You’re mad if you think they’ll be different than they were before; or if you think you can control them.”

“I can,” Solas said.

Lavellan laughed, short and bitter. “They’ll rip you to shreds. You don’t know how angry they are…how strong they are.”

“They are not all like Falon’Din,” Solas said, shaking his head. “And I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He uncurled the fingers of his left hand and Lavellan stared at the crackling green Mark there with a twist of…guilt? Jealousy? Anger? Solas nodded to Lavellan’s glowing arm. “It is good to see you’re faring well.”

Lavellan huffed. “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“And all the thanks to Dorian, I suppose?” Solas chuckled. “We shall see how grateful you are when you’re forced to live in a mansion full of his slaves.”

Lavellan scowled at him. “They’re not _his_ slaves. They belong to his father.”

“Ah, yes. Halward Pavus. They may be his slaves now, but that will change in time. The apple does not fall far from the tree, dear Inquisitor.” Solas smiled sadly. “But I do admire your tenacity, and I admit I’m interested to see if Tevinter is as malleable as you believe it to be. You’ll probably just be disappointed in the end, but in the meantime…” Solas studied the Mark. “I have many preparations to make, plans to design before I set them into motion. You will have your chance to change Tevinter, Inquisitor, fleeting though it may be.”

“Five years, right,” Lavellan muttered. “That’s hardly enough time –”

“No,” Solas said, “you must think me exceptionally cruel. You are my friend, Inquisitor – or at least you were once – and despite what you believe, I do want you to succeed. So I will give you as long as I can – ten years. I truly hope that you prove me wrong. But I have seen many, many failed rebellions, and even the ones that succeed are filled with suffering.”

Ten years? Lavellan could hardly fathom how long that was; though to Solas it must have seemed like the blink of an eye. But it was better than five. It was a chance, and Lavellan would gladly take it. “Ten years,” he agreed. “As of the end of this year.” It was already Harvestmere, and three months would give Lavellan much-needed time to make plans of his own. And, well, to actually get to Tevinter.

Solas hesitated, then nodded. “We have a deal, Inquisitor.”

“Lavellan,” he said quietly. “Just…Lavellan, now.”

Solas looked at him carefully. “You still carry your Clan’s name with you?”

“Of course,” Lavellan sighed. “I won’t let them be forgotten…even if they are long dead.”

“Do not forget who killed them, Lavellan,” Solas murmured. “It is true that war makes strange bedfellows. Perhaps it is unwise to keep them after that war has ended.”

Lavellan snorted, turning away. “Like I said, Solas – you’ve been asleep for a long, long time. Just because you dislike shemlen doesn’t mean we all have to. Besides, who was there for me after my Clan died? You? I don’t think so.”

“You went to your dragon first,” Solas said. “To your Guardian.” He paused. “She won’t always be there to protect you. Of that, I am unfortunately certain.”

Fear prickled through Lavellan. He stepped forward, brow lowering. “What? What are you saying? Solas, what do you know about Nira?”

“I am not the god of fate,” Solas said smoothly, stepping away, into the darkness. “Perhaps you should try asking him.” And then he was gone, and Lavellan woke up alone in his cold bed, heart pounding and shoulders heavy with responsibility once more. 

*

When Dorian failed to send any letters two weeks in a row, Lavellan tried to tell himself it meant nothing and failed miserably. He imagined all kinds of horrific scenarios – Dorian had found a better lover and replaced him, Dorian had been stabbed in some dark alley, Dorian’s father had tried that bloody ritual again and succeeded, the Venatori had recruited him – the list went on and on. All the while, Lavellan was forced to face the terrifying fact that in a week and four days, he was going to turn thirty.

Thirty. Honestly, he’d never expected to live that long. Dorian, who had been thirty four years ago, would have laughed to hear him say that, but it was true. Dalish elves were not known for their long lifespans. Especially not ones who had lost an arm. And yet, there he was, staring out the window of his very own mansion, listlessly eating one of the cookies Sera had dropped off earlier. It tasted like cinnamon and citrus. It reminded him of Dorian. Fenedhis, he was a lovesick fool – Dorian probably didn’t even notice his absence most days! He had enough on his plate as it was, apparently –

There was a sudden movement outside, on the lawn. Lavellan blinked his eyes back into focus, and kept blinking in utter bewilderment as he watched an unfamiliar brown horse race across the estate, its rider dressed in white. The rider stopped at the end of the drive, and it was just as well, because right after they’d gotten the horse tied, Nira swooped down from the heavens and all but tackled the rider, wings beating the air wildly. The horse bucked and whinnied in fear, and several servants dashed outside to calm it. 

Panicked, Lavellan ran from his study, taking the stairs two at a time, all the while praying that Nira hadn’t just killed some oblivious visiting noble. But when he rushed through the main hall and out through the front door, he realized that she wasn’t attacking – she was… _greeting_. Her huge body wriggled like an excited puppy’s, tail thumping at the ground, nuzzling the visitor fondly in between occasional licks. 

And when Lavellan got closer, he heard the visitor laughing and his eyes widened, jaw dropping open. Because…he had to be mistaken. It wasn’t…it couldn’t possibly be…

Hearing Lavellan’s footsteps, Nira paused in her onslaught of affection and bounded over to Lavellan, tongue lolling and head cocked in an uncharacteristically undignified way. The visitor stood, wiping his face with disgust, chuckling as he got to his feet. “I thought I was going to die for a few moments there,” he laughed. “Thank the Maker I didn’t, or that endlessly dull carriage ride would have been all for nothing.”

“Dorian?” Lavellan whispered. Nira grunted happily. “I don’t…how are you here?”

Dorian grinned, still irritatingly gorgeous even when he was covered in dragon spit. “My father finally ran out of things for me to do, and so of course I booked a carriage to Kirkwall straightaway. Took much longer than expected! I hope you didn’t miss my letters too much – oof!”

Lavellan all but flung himself at Dorian, hugging him tightly and burying his face in Dorian’s chest. “You bastard,” he mumbled into the silky fabric. “I missed you.”

He could feel Dorian’s smile against his cheek. “I missed you too, amatus.” Dorian drew back slightly, holding him at arm’s length, smile growing. “When you told me that Sera had cut your hair, I expected some atrocity, but this…I rather like it. Makes you look unbearably young and rebellious. Which is, of course, exactly my type.”

Lavellan bit his lip. “You don’t look bad yourself,” he replied, but truthfully he could see the stress of the last few months on Dorian’s face. His hair had grown out rather than been shorn short, curling charmingly just under his ears and pushed back from his brow. And little crow’s feet were making themselves known at the corners of his gray eyes, tiny lines that Lavellan was tempted to smooth out with his fingers. 

He gave into the urge, tracing the curve of Dorian’s face softly, taken aback by how much tanner his skin had gotten. Dorian cupped Lavellan’s own jaw, something like wonder in his eyes. “I can’t believe it’s been so long,” he admitted. 

“Ten months,” Lavellan whispered.

“Too long,” Dorian countered, and when he leaned in and kissed him, Lavellan clung on tightly and savored every moment. In their Inquisition days, Dorian had always smelled faintly of spices and aromatic oils, but now it was as if every was turned up to the nth degree, until Lavellan felt like he was drowning in the scent and taste of Tevinter. 

“Too long,” he echoed when they separated, breath mingling and noses touching. “I almost thought you’d forgotten about me, pathetic as that sounds.”

“Oh, amatus, never,” Dorian said firmly, fingers curling tight around the back of Lavellan’s neck. “I would have come sooner, I wish I could have. But I decided it was just as well that it took this long – you can be in Tevinter in time for Satinalia, and more importantly, for your birthday.”

Lavellan stared at him, lips parted. “Wait…really? You’re taking me back with you?”

“I was hoping Nira could,” Dorian said, nodding to the dragon, who had laid down several meters away, eyes half-lidded and utterly content. “It would certainly be faster. We could get there in less than a week!”

“But your parents…” Lavellan started uneasily.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “They couldn’t stop me from bringing you even if they tried, which they won’t. In fact, my mother is rather anxious to meet you. I swear she just about fainted when I shared the fact that you’re an elf.”

Lavellan chuckled, but it was nervous. “Er…yes, about that. Won’t that be…a problem? I mean, obviously I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard that elves in Tevinter aren’t exactly well-treated. Even the free ones.”

Dorian sighed. “My homeland has its faults, yes. But I assure you – no harm will come to you. My family’s name carries great weight in Tevinter.” He squeezed Lavellan’s hand. “Besides, it’s not as if everyone’s Venatori there. Many people are actually quite pleasant. My friend Maevaris, for example – oh, you’re going to love her!” He beamed. “So, what do you say? Shall we scandalize high society together once more, amatus? It seems to be what we’re best at.”

Lavellan never could resist those bright eyes and that blinding smile. “Yes,” he said, tugging Dorian close again. “But first…I think we have some lost time to make up for.”

Dorian smirked, fingertips brushing his ears. “Great minds think alike,” he agreed.


End file.
